breath of a salesman
I'd like to say it was a dark and stormy night, or even that it was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen, but, despite these dramatically ominous openings once penned by Bulwer-Lytton and Orwell, respectively, neither would hold a grain of truth. I could also simply shout out Willy! like the first exclaimed line of Arthur Miller's critically acclaimed play, Death of a Salesman, but, unless the villain of our tale coincidentally shares the salesman's name, the borrowed line would bear no relevance.
It was neither dark nor stormy nor riddled with temporally anomalous occurrences. It wasn't sunny either, but no precipitation doused the region at the time of this post-thirteenth hour ordeal, so, around these parts, that's practically synonymous with a bright and pleasing summer's day. And, while the sunless sunshine does not lend a fittingly foreboding aesthetic to the piece, it is, if nothing else, a claim teeming with integrity--which is more than can be said for our Willful and Willy-less Willy. (A moniker I suppose can be interpreted one of two ways. Do feel free to take your pick.)
For many months, he's phoned here, our W.W.W. of nefarious repute. He represents a regionally recognized internet service provider, or so he says. There's a fair possibility he is, indeed, a paid minion of the company, though, if he is, his aggressive sales tactics do not shine a flattering light on his employer. The calls came as often as two or three times a day, lengthy messages filling up our answering machine so frequently, one day we decided not to clear them, effectively eliminating the option for him to record any further pitches. For the same many months, he has also taken his act on the road, going door to door to sell his wares, in case, I presume, any of us found ourselves tearfully bereft at having missed his calls. Some may define his behavior as dedication or tenacity. After being told directly that we are absolutely not interested, Willy-less Willy's bi-monthly visitations might be better classified as harassment. We are not the only ones in the neighborhood who have unsuccessfully attempted to repel him. Our polite refusals are consistently met with impolite perseverance.
Like the bloodthirsty bogeyman of a cheesy horror flick, Willy's departure is never final. Again and again, just when we think the credits are about to roll, he rises from his most recent defeat. Alas, evidence suggests he is impervious to garlic, holy water, rock salt, or amulets, regardless of mystical properties or origin. Ancient Sumerian incantations have also failed. To be fair, I don't speak a word of ancient Sumerian, which, according to the troubleshooting section of my Midlifer's Manual for the Expedient Expulsion of Porch Peddlers, could be the root of the problem. Still, it probably wouldn't work, even if I'd achieved some level of fluency. The man possesses a preternatural zeal to sell us on fiber-optic internet.
Does our ISP really need an ongoing infusion of fiber? If you ask me, our current service has thus far demonstrated a clinically healthy level of regularity.
Late March, on the aforementioned sunless sunny afternoon, Willy-less Willy came calling once more, only this time, our seventy-five pound guard dog was not behind closed doors with yours truly, assisting me through the writing of another chapter in my current novel. No. That day I was working in the living room. Dennie was on the phone with a client. Maisie was here too, within earshot of footfalls over the driveway. Our dog raced to the door, releasing the thunderous, reverberating knell of an imminent apocalypse. Willy lifted his foot to the porch. Maisie reared up, her front paws slamming into the glass, the amplification of her warning barks sending sonic booms and punk garage bands shamefully slithering into exile. Willy, however, remained.
He approached the door. Dennie concentrated on the aforementioned call, placidly pretending not to hear the commotion that, no doubt, the client (and half the county) could hear as well. Willy began pounding his fist. I wrapped my arms around Maisie, gently coaxing the trembling form of my deafening darling away from the door. Willy observed the struggle and did what any self-obsessed malcontent would: he knocked some more. Maisie pulled away from me, leaping at the intruder again, trying to frighten him through the glass. Salesmen from the fourth--or possibly eighth--circle of Hell do not easily frighten. I tried to calm my pup. I listened to Dennie's continued and admirable professionalism, that is, in the fraction of a second between barks when I could hear anything at all. I needed to lure Maisie away--for Dennie's sake, for my still-intact eardrums' sake, for the sake of our door. All the while, the man stared right at me, his knuckles rapping against the glass in a perpetual and perturbing percussion.
Arms around my dog once more, I looked up and met Willy's eyes. There was no apology, no remorse reflected there. Instead, he pointed to the handle as if he were my priority, as if the only obstacle between us was my inability to comprehend such fundamental skills as the operation of a door. My hands occupied with overwrought German shepherd, I couldn't have opened it if I'd wanted to. I didn't want to, especially in light of his behavior. Never mind that Dennie had previously told him, in no uncertain terms, that we did not covet what he was selling. As he continued pointing with one hand, with the other he banged on the glass as if the first thousand knocks had not registered as the desperate cry for attention they were. This agitated Maisie into full protective mode, launched yet again at full height and full volume. I would not scold my precious protector for defending her family. I would not blame her for reacting to this man's insufferable impudence. I also would not, under any circumstances, confine her to a crate or spritz her with water, though I'd have no such reservations about the demon at the door...if only I could remember where I kept spare bottles of the consecrated stuff. Willy-less Willy stood there, willfully antagonizing my dog for another ten to fifteen minutes as he knock-knock-knocked away any chance he'd ever close a deal at the Fitzgerald residence.
By the time he'd retreated, the sunless sun had turned dark and stormy, indeed, if only in our minds. This time, his pitch had been left unspoken, his pitchfork presumably hidden from view.
Sure as the Northwest rain will rain; sure as a guard dog will guard, Willy-less Willy will be back, his persistent spiel nothing more than the wasted breath of a salesman. This has to stop, we realized. Something must be done to deter these diabolical disturbances, something peaceful, something not overtly ill-mannered. There is no need to meet boorishness with same. The answer would come to us, we knew it. Genius dog that she is, Maisie peered into my eyes then glanced toward the door.
Maybe it's a sign, I thought. Maybe it's a sign.
